


Just One Thing I Need

by RyeBread



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: 25 Days 25 Chapters, Alcohol Abuse, Christianity, Eventual Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe, Extremely Brief and Painful Aloysius Fogg/Clayton Sharpe, M/M, Mentions of Miriam Landisman/Arabella Whitlock, Modern AU, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, The World's Saddest Jerk-Off Session, bad breakup, no magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27831310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyeBread/pseuds/RyeBread
Summary: Aloysius learned Clayton's deep dark secret and is none too pleased about it. In the aftermath of their abrupt break-up, Miriam keeps Clayton afloat and tries to get him back on his feet and, more importantly, back on the market. And wouldn't you know it, there's a new church that's come to town in need of a few extra hands to get the place going and a new Reverend who's been preaching a new kind of gospel to the people of Deadwood.
Relationships: Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 19
Kudos: 20





	1. Shot Through the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> With Christmas creeping up on me I wanted to write what's essentially a cheesy Hallmark Romance/Drama(/Comedy?) and I'm always a slut for Clayson. Please see end notes for specific warnings/spoilers about the contents of this and every chapter.

Clayton knows he’s in deep shit the moment he steps into his apartment and is greeted with a sharp, “Amos.”

Aloysius is standing in the tiny kitchen with a face like hell and a too-stiff pose that’s never meant anything but trouble. They’ve been together long enough—in the sense of fucking on the regular and Aly having a key to his place—for Clayton to know that there’s something different about this particular spat that Aly’s aiming to start. Beyond his use of a name that Clayton’s long since abandoned. Clayton refuses to give him the satisfaction of flinching, instead calmly closing the door behind him, unlacing his boots like nothing’s the matter. His voice is level as he asks, “Where’d you hear that name?”

“You know, it’s funny, I heard it from the county police when they showed up asking about someone by that name living here. Seems you forgot to forward them your change of address last year.”

“They shouldn’t need my address since I was _cleared of all charges_ ,” Clayton growls, though he’s fully aware it’s a deflection, and based on Aly’s unflinchingly cold glare, not a very good one.

“So, _Amos_ ,” he says. “We’ve been seeing each other more’n a couple months now-”

“Seven,” Clayton provides.

“Seven months,” Aly amends. “And not once did you see fit to mention that maybe I should know the police might drop by at any time looking for someone going by a different name than the one you gave me?”

Clayton draws himself up, a couple inches taller than Aly, and it does absolutely nothing for his confidence. “Now you listen-”

Aloysius looks more furious just standing there than if he’d been throwing things and screaming at him. “I think it’s time _you_ listen since you had your chance to talk. Two hours ago the police came banging on the door here asking if an Amos Kinsley lived here and they weren’t too pleased when I told them I’d never heard that name before, and no, he didn’t live here.”

“Aly, I’m-”

“Don’t you dare, don’t you _dare_ say you’re sorry, Amos. You aren’t sorry, or at least you aren’t sorry about what you should damn well be sorry for.”

“That’s not fair, dammit!”

“Fair?” Aly’s brows shoot up, eyes still hard and angry and, worst of all, hurt. “What isn’t fair is that you never even gave me a warning something like this could happen. What isn’t fair is that I’ve spent the past seven months calling a _killer_ a friend. I respected your privacy, you know I could’ve found out myself, and you _hid this from me._ ”

“It was self-defense!” Clayton snaps, another deflection that fails to hit home. “They thought I killed someone I didn’t and they tried to kill me, Aly, what in the fuck did you want me to do?”

“Telling me about it would’ve been a decent start,” Aloysius says fiercely. “Because finding out’s how it finishes.”

There’s the shot that gets him. Clayton struggles to find his breath with the finality of it, but he’s still trying for a response when Aly grabs a lumpy garbage bag from behind Clayton’s pitiful excuse for a kitchen island. He sees a coat hanger poking out through the side when Aly hefts it over his shoulder and fishes the apartment keys out of his pocket. “Aly…”

“You can take my name out of your mouth and your phone, Amos.”

He doesn’t even feel it when Aly shoulders past him, doesn’t look for where the keys land when they’re tossed carelessly into the apartment before the door shuts with a final, solid thunk. Not even a proper slam. Twenty minutes later, Clayton stands from where he hasn’t quite noticed he’d slumped to the floor, boots still unlaced on his feet. The aglets click on the hardwood as he forces himself to look through the house. The bedroom confirms everything he’s expected. There’s no shredded pillows or torn up clothes, no paint spattering the walls declaring him a murderer. Just a pointed absence of anyone else’s presence. The bed’s been remade, comforter pulled tight and pillow fluffed. There’s a stark emptiness in half his closet. When he glances into the bathroom, there’s no comb or razor or bright green twin to his own blue toothbrush to be seen. 

Back in the kitchen, Clayton opens the cabinet above the refrigerator and feels a muted relief that at least Aloysius left the whiskey.

###

“Clayton Sharpe, is that you?” 

At some point, he must have run out of liquor at home, because when Clayton looks up he’s at The Gem. God, he hopes he walked here. There’s an empty glass in his hand, warmer than his skin. He only drinks cold liquor so it must have been a while since he finished drinking it. He closes his eyes a moment, trying to remember what made him open them in the first place. 

“Clayton, honey,” the voice says again, and now he feels someone putting their hand on his shoulder. “I need you to look at me.”

Miriam’s got his chin in her off hand when he opens his eyes again, trying to fix her with a level glare. It hasn’t worked in six years, it’s not gonna start working now. “How can I help you, Miss Miriam?”

“Well, for one, you can help me get you home before you piss yourself or some other damn fool thing. What in the hell are you thinking coming out in public looking like this?” Her look is concerned even as her tone’s nothing but annoyance. “Katie came calling me the moment you stumbled in here, you haven’t answered your phone in two days. I was near to calling the police if I didn’t know how you get.”

Clayton barks a laugh at that, harsh and bitter. Then his stomach lurches and he has to clench down on his guts. He lets himself be pulled to his feet, though he only stays on them by nature of Miriam slotting herself under his arm. Miriam shakes her head as his bootlaces drag along the floor.

“You reek, Clayton,” she says, still chiding, but it feels more and more like it’s just her trying to keep his attention. “Two days ago I get a call from Aloysius telling me I should go check up on you, no explanation or nothing. So I do, I give you a ring, but lord knows I’m busy these days helping Jenny through it, so when you don’t answer what am I supposed to do? You men always get like this after a break-up, closing everybody off because you’ve got to handle it on your own. Well, look how you’re handling it, hm? Lordy I should have known this was going to happen.”

“Miriam.”

“Don’t you Miriam me, Mr. Sharpe. I knocked on your door for an hour yesterday, texting and calling. Don’t think I didn’t hear your phone ringing. I figured I could give you one more day to get yourself together, just one more day before I get someone to break down that door and drag you out. Now I get a call—ten o’clock at night—that you’ve gone and stumbled into The Gem smelling like you’ve showered in Jack Daniels and nothing else for a week.”

“Miriam-”

“If Katie hadn’t gotten me on the first ring she was gonna have security toss your sorry behind out to sober up in the alley.”

“Aly…” Clayton mumbles.

“Lord grant me patience,” Miriam says, staggering out with him into the warm air of the summer night. “When you’ve got your sense back, one of you is going to tell me what the hell happened.”

Clayton doesn’t remember most of the journey back to his apartment, he certainly isn’t sure how dainty little Miriam managed to get him up the stairs in the state he’s in, but he does feel the shock of water spraying into his still clothed chest. He’s laying sprawled out across the tub, legs over one side, arms over the other. “Jesus!”

“Look who’s conscious again,” Miriam says, tapping the plug over the faucet to send the water down the drain rather than out through the spigot. She’s got her sleeves rolled up over her elbows, kneeling at his legs to pull off his boots. She wrinkles her nose at the socks, but shucks them too. “Maybe you can help me with the rest of your clothes, then.”

“What the hell’re you-”

“Clayton you’ve got seven hours to get cleaned up, sleep this off, and get your ass to work by 8am. I am not going to see you fired over a _man._ You are not the first person I’ve had to pull out of the gutter and God help me you probably won’t be the last, but we are friends. So get your clothes off.”

Before she’s even finished speaking, he’s clumsily unbuttoning his shirt. After a few painful stretches and twists and tugs, they’ve gotten him properly naked in the tub. He has the wherewithal to cover himself with his hands and Miriam keeps her eyes politely north of his shoulders as she pulls the shower head attachment down and claps one of his hands around it before dropping a bar of soap onto the one still preserving his modesty. She pulls the plug up again and a luke-warm spray of water chugs once, twice, then continues out in a steady stream over his chest as he looks down. 

“Well, I’m not scrubbing you down like a child,” Miriam says, taking a bottle of 3-in-1 shampoo off the shoddy shower shelf and grimacing at it. “Pass me the sprayer when you’ve got yourself clean and I’ll get to work on this rat’s nest you’ve got going on up here.”

Clayton feels sick, his stomach churning and his throat working like he’s going to cry—again. Still between the two of them, he gets himself smelling less like sweat, booze, and various other stinks he’s collected over two days and more like whatever it is Dove’s supposed to smell like. Miriam works her fingers against his scalp, massaging the soap into his hair and trying to extricate the knots and tangles, taking the shower head from him every so often to wash out the soap before doing it again. She takes a brush to it, though where she was keeping it, he has no idea. He rubs some foam into his mustache and sideburns, just to keep busy as Miriam finishes her work on his hair. After a few minutes, he realizes she’s been muttering to herself.

“Damn fool men, the lot of you. Tear yourselves to pieces like it’d kill you to talk about your feelings.”

“I’m sorry, Miriam,” Clayton says, rinsing his face off. “I’m sorry.”

“You apologize to me when you’re sober and you do it right and I’ll forgive you,” Miriam says, matter-of-factly. “Apologies of drunk men and scared women don’t mean nothing and you know it.”

Clayton feels his chin wobble before he clenches his jaw, but Miriam must feel the tight shudder of his shoulders because she just sighs, rests her chin on the crown of his head, and hugs him around the neck. They hold that position for a few minutes until the water goes cold and Miriam’s posture wavers. 

“Alright, Clayton, enough’s enough.”

“Yes, Miriam,” he says, pushing at his eyes with his palms, as though he could shove the tears that want to come back into the ducts. “Do you want to take the bed? Couch’s good enough for me.”

“I’ve got a warm bed and a warm wife waiting for me at home. I would have to be leagues more tired than this for me to sleep on _your_ bed. Someday soon we’re going to get you a real mattress with a box spring.” Clayton recognizes, even through the stupor and sorrow, that Miriam is just talking to fill the space, but after days of no noise but what he made ghosting through a too-empty apartment, it’s a welcome sound. 

It’s less of a production getting him dry and put to bed than it was getting him undressed and clean, due in no small part to the increased sobriety, but as the fog leaves his brain, the exhaustion settles over him. Miriam’s voice continues a low, smooth narration as she helps him clamber onto the comforter. He falls asleep with a towel around his waist before his head’s settled on the pillow.

Several hours later he’s woken up by the painfully pressing need to pee. He thrashes off the bed and stumbles out and into the bathroom blindly, towel falling off his hips as he goes. Through luck more than grace, he makes it to the toilet. As he washes his hands, he notices the glass of water and a pair of white pills on the counter next to his toothbrush. The brush, pointedly, already has a dab of toothpaste on it. He swallows the pills, finishes the glass of water, refills and finishes a second glass of water, then brushes his teeth. His head doesn’t hurt yet, though he can feel the shape of the beast to come and the pills should help cut the worst of it when it does hit. When he clambers back into his bedroom, stark naked and groggy, the bedside clock tells him he’s still got another hour before he needs to get up and get ready. Clayton shakes his head and instead pulls on a pair of clean boxers, worn jeans, and a plain gray t-shirt before making his way into the kitchen with a pair of socks in hand. He’s not typically one for elaborate breakfasts, but he’s got some eggs in the refrigerator and if he keeps his hands busy cooking he’s not going to go scrounging for liquor to take the edge off before work. Plus Miriam’ll be asking him about his day later and he’s never been able to lie to her. Not about little things.

He slaps a pat of butter into the pan and stares at it as it begins to melt and slide around the pan, leaving a bubbling, hissing trail. He rocks the small skillet, glancing at the kitchen island where a bronze glint catches his eye. Aly’s- The spare keys are resting perilously on the edge of the counter. He grits his teeth, hand clenching around an egg hard enough to crunch. Clayton relaxes before he explodes the thing all over the floor, managing to split it over the spitting pan and toss the shell into the sink before adding a second, bright orange yolk. It crisps quickly, the pan too hot and the butter near to burning. He’s never claimed to be a good cook, just a fast one. If Aloysius were here he’d have scraped the whole mess of it into the trash and taken over by now. ‘Good things take time, Sharpe.’

Clayton dumps the eggs onto a plate, scraping it out with a plastic spatula where the whites have fused to the supposedly non-stick bottom. Miriam won’t be thrilled with him if she comes by before he has the motivation to clean, but he can’t make himself do more than drop the skillet in the sink and wrangle a single piece of white bread to serve as cutlery. The eggs settle into his stomach as a heavy, warm comfort, but he doesn’t risk the small burst of energy on cleaning the plate any more than he did on the skillet. Instead he turns the water on cold, filling his hands with it to wash down the remnants of yolk sticking to his teeth and to scrub his face.

Mercifully, the raging hangover is pacified by food, water, and the extra-strength tylenol so by the time it can claw through his defenses, it’s reduced to light nausea and what could best be described as pinching behind his eyes. Nothing he can’t handle. He knows he’s awfully lucky Miriam caught his bender early. Part of him is bitter about that. Wallowing’s gotten him through a lot. 

He dries his hands and face on a ragged dish towel and slips on his socks and boots. One step in front of the other, that’s how he’ll get through this. The mantra gets him out of the house, then it gets him into the car, and ultimately it gets him through the warehouse doors by 7:45am. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:  
> Aloysius messily breaking up with Clayton  
> Clayton abusing alcohol to cope  
> Clayton being consensually nude in front of Miriam (non-sexual context)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going good so far, got chapters churning out on schedule. As always, see end notes for spoilers and warnings.

Ultimately it’s neither the sorrow nor the drinking that costs Clayton his job, but the cruel whims of fate and corporate. They’re closing up shop and moving warehouses to Florida of all places. He made a decent wage with Doulton, packing up porcelain worth more than his apartment to ship it to people worth more than his entire block, but it seems the cost of shipping has finally outweighed the low operating costs in bumfuck South Dakota. He was just bought out by them from Foster-Norman Workforce Solutions, so he does at least get his two week’s severance and unused vacation hours, but it’s looking more and more like he’s gonna have to go crawling back to the agencies to find some work that needs doing.

Still, he’s got a little time and a bit of savings. Maybe a week to _think_ might not be the worst thing in the world. He tucks the check into his wallet to deposit later as he walks out of the warehouse for the last time. It’s been three weeks since Aloysius left. Even the long hours and working weekends hasn’t been enough to shake the profound loneliness gripping the edges of his awareness. He’s slept alone before, he slept alone six nights a week more often than not even when he and Aly were… an item. But sleeping alone knowing that Aly’s not coming back is a punch in the gut every single night. 

He’s been transparent with Miriam when she asks, and she knows not to ask unless she’s ready to fight with him about it, but he’s been drinking. Not too much, not enough to go wandering off to The Gem again, but enough to not mind the too empty apartment and get to sleep by midnight. Clayton holds his wallet tighter as he walks down the road toward the corner store. He’s got enough for rent, two months rent even. Groceries, bills, and gas _and_ two months rent not counting the severance. How wrong would it possibly be to splurge a little on the middle-shelf stuff?

He’s about to walk in when his phone buzzes. Clayton’s never been much for signs, but as far as coincidences go, it’s hard to ignore. “Clayton,” he says.

“You busy?” Miriam asks from the other end.

“Not for another few weeks.” Clayton sighs. “I was just let go.”

“Oh, Clayton,” Miriam says, sympathy in her voice, but also a tautness that he clocks as suspicion.

“They’re moving warehouses,” he clarifies. “Going where I can’t follow.”

“Oh,” she says, surprised, then she apparently catches herself. “Well, if you’re recently free, then how about you make your way over to my place for dinner tonight? Arabella’s working late tonight, and I would appreciate the company.”

Clayton pulls in a breath through his teeth. “Yeah, I suppose I could make my way over. Lemme just pick up a bottle of wine.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Miriam says. “You know, I just picked up a bottle of sparkling lemonade I’ve been meaning to try and Bella’s just not a fan of lemonades.”

“I’m just being polite,” he insists, already starting through the door. “Wouldn’t want to soil your doorstep with nothing to show.”

“Really, Clayton, it’s no bother.”

“Red or white?” Clayton asks, giving a curt nod to the disinterested clerk. She’s seen him in here often enough the past few weeks that the only thing that’s liable to raise her eyebrows is when he drops something as light as wine on the counter this time. 

Miriam gives a small sigh of defeat, “Red. And if you show up here with Moscato I swear I’m turning you right back out, you hear me, Mr. Sharpe? A lady has standards.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, putting it back on the shelf. “So what can I expect to find on your table tonight?”

“Just a pot pie and some ice cream if you’re good.”

###

Miriam greets him with smiles and warmth, but he feels the undercurrent of worry that’s cut through all the niceties and cheer even as she locks the door behind him. Still, he dutifully kneels down to unlace his boots and take them off at the foyer while she makes a show of unwrapping the wine he’s brought over. “Ooh, well isn’t this a nice vintage.”

“Is it now?” Clayton asks.

“Not even a little,” Miriam says in the same high tone, taking it with her to the kitchen as Clayton gets himself to his feet. “But it’ll look nice on that little wire rack Arabella dug up.”

“Mm. You know when someone brings wine, it’s generally understood the intention is to drink it.” 

“Maybe with dessert,” Miriam says. “We wouldn’t want to spoil the… Big Sipper Merlot with my poor old-country cooking.”

The pie is already sitting on Miriam’s little round table in the kitchen, steaming and golden-brown. Two glasses of water are already poured for them. Clayton takes a seat, waiting as Miriam is true to her word and sets the bottle beside two others on a green metal wine rack. As she settles into her chair and begins to cut into the pie, he says, “Pie looks good.”

“Thank you, though really it is nothing special. Just a little bit of cupboard clearing.”

“Mm.” They’re both silent for a few minutes as Miriam serves them both, apart from a few short bits of idle chatter between bites. It’s awkward in ways Clayton’s not used to, and the air feels impossibly heavy in the spaces between words. To be honest with himself, it’s pissing Clayton right off. Did she invite him here to berate him and got cold feet when he walked through the door? Is she trying to work her way up to something? He reigns in the urge to snap at her. “Is there… something you’d like to say, Miriam?”

Miriam swallows, reaches for her glass, and takes a quick sip. “No. Why, was there something you wanted to talk about?”

“Well there’s something I _don’t_ want to talk about and it feels like you’re looking to talk about it.”

“I can’t rightly talk about something if nobody’s gonna tell me what needs to be talked about,” Miriam says, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “So I’ll ask again: is there something you wanted to talk about?”

“If Aloysius doesn’t want to fucking talk about it, then it doesn’t need talking about!”

“Clayton Sharpe you are in my home,” Miriam says curtly.

“I apologize,” he grates out. 

Miriam frowns, but concedes, “Accepted. Now if you’re so eager to keep me out of your business then maybe we can talk about something else, then. So you got let go.”

“That’s still my business,” Clayton grumbles, fruitlessly.

“Do you have any prospects?” she asks.

Clayton rolls his eyes at the brush-off. “None as of yet, but you don’t need to worry.”

“Worrying’s what I do, Clayton. So you’re out of a job, no prospects just yet, and you’re single. How do we move on from here?”

“Well you make it all sound so hopeful.”

“Don’t go getting a thin skin on me now. You’re a big, strong man, I’m sure you’ll get your way found soon enough, I just… I want to make sure you have a plan. Do you need to move in with Arabella and me, just until you’re back on your feet?”

“No. I don’t need your charity, Miriam, I’m just a little down on my luck.”

“It’s not a charity,” Miriam says. “I fully intend to put you to work if you start living here. There’s been a leak in the guest bathroom for weeks now, I could use some new fixtures on the spice rack. Believe you me, you wouldn’t be a charity case under this roof.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Honestly, Clayton, it wouldn’t be an imposition. You don’t ever have to ask permission, you just let me know if you need to come stay with us so I can make up the guest bed.”

Clayton sighs, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, if you _do_ need some work to do in the meanwhile, I was actually going to let you know that there’s a new place opening up right in town that could use some carpentry work. Maybe just a little here and there when I thought you’d be needing something to do with your hands, but now I’m sure you’d be compensated if you went asking.”

Clayton scrapes the last forkful of pie into his mouth, mindful of the crumbs in his mustache, and thinks it over. “When you say a new place...?”

“Now, I was just asking as a favor. This isn’t a hint or a- a- a swipe at you.”

“Miriam, what kind of place is it that needs working on?”

“It’s a church-”

“No.” Clayton stands, plate in hand to make his way toward the sink.

Miriam is up faster than he’d expect, already putting a hand on the other side of his plate like she means to hold him there with it. “Would you just listen?”

“You’ve listened to me plenty in the past, Miriam, you know how I feel about it.”

“Well maybe you’ve talked about it enough so you’ve got time to listen to me this time,” Miriam snaps, then her face softens at whatever expression sneaks its way across Clayton’s feature. “Please, it’d mean a great deal to me.”

“You never struck me as a church-girl.” Clayton pulls the plate from her grip and puts it into the sink. He meets her eyes over his shoulder as he looks back at her, sighing. He tilts his head at her, relenting to hear her out.

“It’s got nothing to do with The Church and everything to do with _this_ church. Back during the city planning meetings a few months back, there was a reverend that showed up looking to set up shop here in Deadwood. You remember that old Chapel down by the graveyard right on the city limit?”

“Can’t say I do,” he says. Miriam frowns, an expression that’s really not at home on her face. It sends a pang of guilt through Clayton for having put it there so frequently this evening. “Alright, fine, yeah. The one off Route 85.”

“Yes, precisely. So he says he’s with the… okay, just let me finish the sentence before you go losing your temper, alright? He’s Catholic.” Clayton’s jaw shifts, but he keeps his tongue locked firmly behind his teeth until she continues, “Says he’s with the… American Catholics or something along those lines. American Communions? Apostles of the Communion? They’re open-minded is the important thing. Believe in marriage equality and everything and I think that it might be a good influence around here, you know?”

“You might not be a church girl, Miss Miriam, but you’re certainly an optimist.”

“I think that’s generally for the best,” she says. “Can’t go ‘round thinking the worst of people all the time. It’s a sure fire way to lose your mind.”

Clayton snorts, “I’m a case study in losing your mind thinking the worst, I bet.”

“Now Clayton that’s just not true. And you’re trying to distract me from the point. Would you go help out at that new church? I got their contact information in my purse somewhere, and they’re paying. I know it’s been a few years since you’ve done contract work, but you’ve got the qualifications.”

“Qualifications and motivations are two very different things,” he grouses.

“How’s paying rent for motivation?”

“That’s playing dirty, Miriam.” He squeezes a dab of soap onto the plate and gives it a quick swirl with a damp sponge before turning the water on to scrub it properly. “Go get your plate for me before they get all gummy.”

She sighs, but retreats to the table to collect their utensils. “I just don’t know why you’re being so stubborn. I’m not here to preach about God to you, but surely it wouldn’t _hurt_ any to help build a church.”

“I’m not opposed to God, but you know the kinda hand I’ve been dealt. If there’s some force behind my situation, God don’t play cards.”

Miriam drops the plates and silverware into the sink before sidling up next to Clayton with the dish towel to dry the plate he’s just rinsed off. “Oh don’t go pretending the devil’s got it out for you.”

“Of the two, I’ve heard one’s more the gambling type.”

“If that’s the case,” Miriam says, “then it’s all the more reason to get on God’s good side.”

Clayton doesn’t say anything else about it as they finish the dishes, but as he goes to leave, he tucks the flyer and business card into his jacket with a mumbled, “Thanks for having me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:  
> Clayton becoming unemployed (unrelated to his alcoholism)  
> Clayton continuing to abuse alcohol, though not explicitly  
> Mentions of Christianity


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clayton spends some time alone, gets caught up in some memories, and suffers immense embarrassment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, this chapter is what makes the rating go up to Explicit. I all but promise it is not as sexy as it should be to deserve the rating.

Clayton spends the day after his dinner with Miriam alone. It’s not that he __wants__ to be alone, not really, but it’s certainly easier than having to go down to some up and coming church, introducing himself, and begging for a job from a foundation that all but disowned him back when his face was on the local news. Google’s shown all sorts of things about the sect this Reverend Mason is trying to start up, though none are clear about the actual mission statement, and he can’t find any results on the Reverend himself. None he can verify, at least. He takes a pull from a can of beer as he clicks the next link and his shitty desktop chugs along as it loads the page. A bit more information about the church itself, some references to LGBT+ support groups and more bullshit about becoming a “more welcoming and loving community through Christ.”

No pictures of Reverend Mason. 

Either he’s somehow been absent from every single community photo-op, or he’s made a conscious effort to be excluded from them. It’s suspicious as hell, honestly. Clayton closes the tab and drains the last of his can. 

It’s still early afternoon, but it’s not like he’s got anywhere to be, so he takes another beer from the fridge and returns to bed. Force of habit had him pulling the sheets taut and pushing the wrinkles of the blanket when he woke up this morning, so it lends him a small bit of comfort to feel a made bed fold around him. He sets the beer on his nightstand. The nightstand on the right. Both nightstands are his. With his back braced by the board and a pair of pillows, Clayton lets his head fall back until it touches the wall. He’s tired, he’s unemployed, and he’s fucking __single__ —not that they were, strictly speaking, a couple—so he’s allowed to spend one day in bed before he has to go job hunting. One goddamn day. He cracks open the can and takes a long, slow sip.

When he finishes the can, he sets it back down on the nightstand beside his phone. He’s only had a few, but they were serving a dual purpose mood-dampener and breakfast so he can feel his brain tilting a little to the right. Not enough to be tipsy even, but enough to push his thoughts from anger to loneliness to bitterness. He nudges the empty can to pick up his phone, causing it to teeter perilously for a moment before it settles. Clayton would’ve just let it fall. Not like he’s got anyone to impress with the state of his room. With four slides of his thumb, his phone opens to his home screen. It was never a picture of Aly, or the two of them, or any stupid shit like that, but it’s a picture of the Badlands when he and Aly and Miriam had gone out there a few months back. He’s been out there dozens of times, but that time had been the first he’d felt compelled to take a picture of the canyons. Aly had pointed out one of the goats. 

Clayton opens his photos, trying to find a better home screen option. He could use one of Miriam. The idea of having to look her in the eyes, even as a digital photograph, makes him reconsider. He doesn’t have a lot of options, he’s just not a picture person. He tries to click the little button that’ll sort them out by month, maybe find something from a year or so ago, but he accidentally flips to the Albums. There’re three options: Recent, Selfies—which consists of five pictures that incidentally contain a face—and Hidden.

Aly’d only told him to take his number out of his phone.

Clayton knows it’s fucked up, he knows he should just delete the whole album without even opening it, but today he’s going to let himself be trash. His thumb brushes the album cover, the symbol of a blinded eye glaring at him for half a second before it opens into twelve photos and two videos. His breath catches in his throat and, even if he knows it’s stupid, he looks up at his closed door then the shuttered blinds. __What’re you, twelve?__ __You can jack off in your own house!__

He presses the heel of his hand over his dick through the jeans, already somewhat interested and only getting harder as he flips from the first picture to the next. They’re both pictures of Aly’s cock, legs spread out to center it. Clayton’s never been much of a photographer, but given the right inspiration, he’s been known to pull off a masterpiece now and then. The third is from Aly’s perspective, a downward angle of Clayton mouthing against his dick, looking up at the camera with hooded eyes. He’s holding Aly’s thigh with one hand, the other out of sight. He remembers that night, remembers the phantom feeling of jerking himself off as he breathed Aly in. The heel of his palm presses down a little harder, granting some small relief as his cock starts to make his jeans feel far too tight. 

He remembers the taste of clean skin and the smell of Aly’s soap mixed with the musk and sweat of sex. Lip between his teeth, Clayton struggles to open the button and fly one handed. After taking the picture, Aloysious had dropped the phone on his nightstand and ran his fingers through Clayton’s hair. Told him how hot it was that he loved to suck dick, how good his mouth felt. 

Clayton gets his dick free, pushing his underwear beneath his balls, giving them a rolling squeeze. He hooks his thumb and forefinger around the base and strokes himself slowly as he loses himself in the memory. Clayton isn’t a small man, but he remembers how Aly had pulled him up to kiss him. That was something he’d really valued: Aly wasn’t disgusted by kissing after he’d given head. He wets his lips, biting his tongue gently. 

The next picture is of his own back, Aly’s hand spread wide between his shoulders. Clayton feels that warmth, soothing and grounding. He didn’t always bottom, but Aly always made the experience good. It didn’t feel like a chore, even if douching properly was a bitch and a half. He wants to pretend that good dick is all he’ll be missing now that Aly’s left. Mostly he’ll miss how Aly held him afterward.

Pre leaks down his cock, smoothing the slow glide of his hand as he brings himself gradually to his peak. It’s embarrassing how quickly he gets there, toes curling and Aly’s name on his lips as he squeezes the base of his cock and lifts his hips off the bed. He’s coming hard over his stomach and hand.

Then his phone vibrates and chimes.

Miriam’s name flashes across the screen, and, in his bleary panic to cancel the call, he swipes over the green answer button.

“Clayton?” she asks.

 _ _Fucking shit.__ “Morning Miriam.”

“Morning. Are you alright? You sound out of breath.” Clayton wants to scream, or at least just hang up as the cum on his hand slides down his palm. 

“Just fine,” he bites out, wiping his hand on his stomach, knowing full well it’s going to clump up all the hair there before he has a chance to hop in the shower and clean this mess. “What’s got you calling me?”

“You haven’t been crying have you? Clayton, you know it’s alright to call me when you’re feeling down,” Miriam says, voice heavy with concern. 

He doesn’t need this right now. Maybe this is punishment for jacking off to an ex( boyfriend?)’s nudes. “I’m alright, I said!”

Miriam sniffs, “Okay, okay, no need to get defensive. I just wanted to know if you’d given any thought to the church. I spoke to Katie down at the Gem and she’s been telling me they’re really gonna be hurting for contract workers to get the church up and running on time. Plenty of money to be had there, too. Seems the old building burnt down, they’ve had all sorts of builders and inspectors in there. Your certifications are all still up to date, right?”

“Yes,” he grits out, debating the pros and cons of wiping away the mess with the hem of his shirt. “And yes I been thinking about it.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense!”

“I’ve been looking into the church and I can’t seem to find hide nor hair of this mysterious new reverend in any official capacity in relation to them. I just wanna make sure nobody’s being taken for a ride.”

Miriam actually giggles at that, “Oh I don’t think anyone’s going to be worried about that.”

“What’s that mean?” Clayton asks, fully aware that every question he asks puts more time between now and a chance to scrape the cum off his stomach. 

“When you meet him, you’ll see that nobody’s going to be complaining about taking a ride with Reverend Mason,” she says vaguely. “So, if you’re really considering putting yourself out there and lowering yourself to do some carpentry for the Carpenter himself, I could arrange a meeting. I’d be happy to put in a good word for you, just say the word.”

“I don’t need you bending all the weapons at your disposal to getting me a job I don’t know I even want.”

“Having a little sway with the county Democrats and running some weekly community events down at the Rec hardly counts as weapons, Clayton.”

“You’re the sweetheart of Deadwood, Miriam, and you know it. You’ve got a little bit of everyone in your pockets.”

She’s quiet for a moment, long enough for Clayton to worry he’s offended her, but then she speaks up, just as chipper, “Just goes to show that being pleasant gets you places. I’m running a few errands now, but meet me at the church in an hour and we can do some introductions. Wear something nice!”

He doesn’t have a chance to say goodbye before she’s hung up, broaching no room for argument either. As the call screen drops, Clayton is once again confronted with the view of Aly’s hand resting between his shoulders. He sighs, frustrated, and presses the home button before closing his phone. He tossed it back onto the nightstand and holds his shirt rucked up to his chest while cupping his long-since softened dick before rolling to his feet off the side of the bed. It’s a short walk of shame compared to all the others in his life but by far the most pathetic as he makes his way to the bathroom. He wipes himself down with a washcloth while the shower gets hot. 

Clothes all piled in the laundry, truly a waste but he’s in no mood to risk smelling like sex now that he’s got to go talk to people, he steps into the water. It’s a mechanical affair, soaping himself up and rinsing off, picking at the cemented hairs below his navel and wincing every time he has to pull one out rather than disentangle it from the disgusting mess he’s made of himself. He gives his hair a cursory wash and conditioning. He doesn’t let it sit in his hair, another of Aly’s quips ghosting past his ear as he washes the cream rinse out before it has a chance to do anything at all helpful. __If you’re not gonna give a shit about it, you might as well cut it all off.__

__Oh shut up__ , he thinks to nobody. Water goes off, he steps onto the damp tile and looks in the mirror. Foggy as it is, he can still see how haggard his cheeks and eyes look. He reaches for the razor and the trimmer before he recognizes the impulse to do it. It’s not like he’s ever really cared too much about how he looks to people, but Miriam did request he wear something nice and he can only assume that carries over to his skin and hair. Thin as his is getting lately, he should be taking better care of them better for his own sake. 

He succeeds at not cutting his face open or any fool thing like that and manages to shape his mustache and sideburns into something half past decent. Nothing much to do about the bags under his eyes or the fact that his hair looks like something you’d find in the shower drain until it dries. He’ll leave the windows open in the car while he drives.

His closet doesn’t have much in the way of ‘nice’ clothes, but this isn’t exactly a job interview for a CEO position so he settles on a short sleeve button-down, slacks, and his nicer work boots. He grabs a tool belt from the bottom of the closet to really sell the look. His old tool bag is still in the bed of his truck, assuming nobody’s gone digging through it and stolen the beat-up canvas from under all the other rusty odds and ends he keeps back there. Keys, wallet, and phone safely stored away, he makes his way down to the street where his truck’s parked. Time to meet this reverend, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:  
> Clayton drinking in the morning  
> Clayton keeping nudes of Aly  
> Clayton jacking off to said nudes  
> Clayton being stuck having a phone conversation with Miriam while have just cum on his hand and stomach  
> Mentions of Christianity


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They meet! That's it!

The sun’s near its highest point by the time Clayton gets to the church parking lot. He feels the heat of it bearing down on him, though he knows they’ve only got a few more weeks of it before he’ll be missing it. He puts his hand over his eyes like a mock salute while he looks for Miriam among the handful of cars parked about. She sees him first, already moving towards him by the time he spots her.

“Afternoon, Clayton,” she says, reaching out for his hand, her other occupied by a manilla folder. “Come on, he’s inside with a few of the other members of the council.”

He has the wherewithal to grab his tool bag from the bed of the truck, but no sooner he has it in hand he’s being dragged toward the church. Or rather, Clayton realizes the closer they get, a church-like structure with absolutely no decorations or furnishings. The wide doorway is open, the nave is dusty with the imprints of foot traffic creating a scuffed trail up to the chancel where there isn’t even an altar, just a raised platform where six people are standing in a loose circle. One man seems to be directing the conversation even if he’s not exactly holding everyone’s attention. As he and Miriam approach, though, Clayton realizes three things: the man must be the Reverend given his vestments, the man is a good two or three inches taller than everyone else there, and the man is built like a brick shithouse.

“ _That’s_ Mason?” Clayton asks in a quick whisper to Miriam. 

She gives him a small smile before taking a few quick steps ahead, “Oh, Reverend, Reverend Mason! I hope we’re not running late.”

Mason turns and Clayton pulls up short. He’s _hot._ He knows himself well enough that he’d be a sucker for any man that big, but Mason’s all lantern jaw and beard and genuine smile. Even the scar on his cheek only serves to accentuate the otherwise perfect symmetry of his face. This is entirely unfair. Reverends are supposed to be sexless geriatrics that tell him he’s going to Hell unless he repents all his misdeeds and forgoes his unclean lifestyle. 

Mason holds his hand out to Miriam who gives him a firm shake that becomes a leading pull toward the frozen Clayton, “This is Clayton Sharpe, the carpenter I told you about.”

“Charmed,” Mason says, extending his hand again, now to Clayton.

Clayton takes it, giving it one rough squeeze before dropping it like it burned him. It may as well have, given how warm his palm was. He pointedly meets Mason’s eyes, exuding wary but professional respect and hoping that covers the rush of lust. _Lead me not into temptation, indeed,_ he thinks. “I hear you need someone to do some work on your church.”

“Yes,” Mason affirms, “and I hear you were looking to do it. Miss Miriam gave a glowing recommendation of your handiwork.”

“It all depends on what needs doing,” Clayton says, taking the excuse to look around at the structure of the empty building. “Any structural stuff you’re gonna need an architect and someone with more qualifications that I have to make sure you’re not going to have this place falling down around your ears. You want someone to make sure you’ve got pews people can actually sit on and an altar that’ll hold all your censors and sh- stuff, then you’re going to want me.”

“Have you got any experience in making those things?”

Miriam speaks up, “Oh he got his first job as a kid working for his family’s church, repairing pews and the like.”

That isn’t strictly true, seeing as he wasn’t paid for it.

“You’re Christian then?” Mason asks, not surprise in his voice, but excitement, maybe.

“Recovering Catholic,” Clayton says, deadpan.

Of all the reactions Clayton anticipated, an actual blush was not one of them. “I apologize for assuming. If I might be so bold, then it’s safe to presume you’ve no intention of attending this church once it’s up and running?”

“Is that a requirement of employment?”

Miriam pinches his hip, out of Mason’s view, and glares at him meaningfully. She slides her personable mask back on before the Reverend can see her sharp expression. “Hah, of course not Clayton. You’re going to be contracted, isn’t that right, Reverend?”

“Well, we’ve been in talks with a few contractors, but I very much appreciate the examples of work you’ve done in the past, Mr. Sharpe. I don’t want to make any, ah, promises just yet. Not before we’ve talked about wages and contracts.” Mason takes the initiative in leading them back to the main group of people. “So tell me more about the work you’ve done in the past.”

“Not much to tell,” Clayton says, “just that I did this kind of work about ten years, til I was about twenty-seven. Had to move, settled here in Deadwood. Not a lot of sustained work for a carpenter even with certification. Cabinets, kitchen counters, shit- stuff like that while I’ve been working other jobs.”

“Well we were hoping to have a dedicated contractor to get this church up and running,” Mason says, slotting himself beside the rest of the group, who all in turn look to Clayton and Miriam. 

One, an older woman, speaks up, “Now there’s still the matter of who is going to be paying for all this.”

Mason nods, “Of course community donation would be the most helpful, but private investors are always welcome so long as they understand that a donation is just that. No preferential treatment or benefits beyond helping their fellow man to reach enlightenment through Christ.”

“Well you see,” a man says, “we here in Deadwood tend towards tradition. I’m not opposed to your new establishment, certainly not, but you must understand that some might feel you’re trying to poach members of other congregations here with your… agenda.”

“What agenda would that be?” Clayton asks, pointedly.

“Well.” The man, who Clayton believes is named Johnny, averts his gaze. “Maybe agenda’s the wrong word if it comes off as, well, antagonizing.”

“Antagonizing to who?” Clayton asks, ignoring the light touch of Miriam’s fingers on his arm. 

“I just meant that-“ Johnny tries.

Mason holds up his hand, “I think we can all rest assured that I’m not trying to steal anyone from their shepherds, I just think it would be beneficial to the community’s more marginalized members to have a place for them. Christian or not, my plans for the community would cover a good deal of activities that provide some much needed support for them. All the other congregations in the area have their preferred and necessary charities that, of course, provide valued services to the sick and the needy, but it has been an unfortunate taint on the history of followers of God that some in need face persecution or neglect at the words of the misguided.”

Johnny looks like he’s about to add something when the woman beside him gives him a far less subtle nudge than Miriam’s usual. He flinches, then evidently rephrases, “That’s all well and good, Reverend, but there is the matter of funding. We would be happy to allow the posting of flyers and the like to generate some revenue for the construction, but you must understand that we wouldn’t want to- to strain the parishioners who already pay tribute to their own faith.”

“Why Johnny,” Mason says, “I wouldn’t dare put more pressure on anyone if I could help it. Luckily I’ve already hit a few goals on the internet for providing for the church’s construction. So, provided we’re all in agreement that funding and donations were the only issue with my starting a new family under Christ here in Deadwood, I believe that about wraps up our business as a committee.”

“Well-”

The woman beside him gives him another rough nudge, “Yes, Reverend, I believe that about wraps it up.”

The rest of the gathered committee members give their agreements in varying levels of begrudgment, leaving Johnny to flounder briefly before deflating. “I suppose we’ll see you at City Hall in two weeks for a progress report and budget, then?”

“Sounds like a solid plan, Johnny.”

Clayton watches as they begin to file down the bare aisle and out the doors. He didn’t expect the Reverend to have such teeth all of the sudden given how beaten down he’d looked before he and Miriam had shown up. “So you’ve got a budget in mind, then?”

Mason looks a little startled when Clayton addresses him, a bit of his confidence slipping into sheepishness. “Oh. Yes. I do have some idea I just didn’t want to push you into something that’s not, uh, sustainable for you if you felt pressured by the organization to do the work anyway.”

“Trust me, you don’t gotta worry about that.”

“Which is to say,” Miriam amends, “that Clayton knows his worth.”

The Reverend nods, “Always a good quality. The humble might inherit the Earth, but the mindful will be around to enjoy it.”

Clayton gives a noncommittal grunt. “So how would you like to go about negotiating a contract?”

“If you don’t mind,” Miriam says in that tone of voice she has that tells Clayton that it is well within his interests not to mind, “I did a bit of my own research and I think I know how best we might all get our needs met. The rectory out back still has a functional office space that the groundskeepers have been maintaining, though there aren’t any chairs, but I’m sure we can all have this discussion out there and be done by dinner.”

Mason must be a wise man because he lets the force of nature that is Miriam Landisman wash over him and pull him along in her wake, the two men who are each twice her size taken in by her current as she leads the way.

###

Miriam severely underplayed her claim of having done research, given that she’s got average rate of pay, median salaries, travel costs and expenses, and at least four different contacts on who had previously worked on each of the six other churches in Deadwood all in that little manilla folder she kept tucked under her arm. When Mason glances over at the Reverend, he’s relieved to see his own consternation reflected back at him. 

Still, neither of them let it completely overwhelm them. True to her word, they do come to an agreement on how Clayton can best apply his talents and what sort of compensation he might expect for it well before it’s time for dinner. It’s a fair bit more than Clayton had expected, but it’s also a shorter contract than he would have otherwise liked, putting him at a bit of a pinch for time if he wants to uphold his end. He’ll be spending a lot more time at the church and conferring with Mason to make sure it’s all up to snuff. It’s not like pews are particularly difficult to construct, and the Reverend’s not looking for anything fancy. He has six months to get the church up and running, which will include constructing pews, ordering portraits, building an altar, and requisitioning all the other materials they’ll need to get it underway. What started as something of a job interview has become a negotiation almost immediately and Clayton is never more happy to have Miriam as his best friend.

It’s hard to tell if it’s the heat or Miriam’s intensity, but Mason is sweating bullets by the time he’s agreed to the last bullet on her agenda. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Miriam, but I can’t say it’s not fair. If we’re all in agreement, I can have the last of the paperwork sent over to you tomorrow evening. I’ve got your address here, would you mind if I stopped by, Mr. Sharpe?”

“I’ll be around,” Clayton says. 

“Looking forward to it,” Mason says, giving him that glowing smile of his. Clayton regrets not insisting they meet at Miriam’s, or town hall, or anywhere else. Having this man in his house is asking for trouble. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:  
> Contract negotiation  
> Implied Homophobia  
> Discussions on Christian Religions


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good Reverend comes over to discuss the future of their business contract, Clayton attempts to be a tolerable host.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing major going on here, just more character establishment and being horny over hands. See the end notes for chapter warnings.

Perhaps it’s the remnants, the last few dredges, of Catholic guilt that has Clayton picking at the various untidy corners of his apartment before the Reverend’s due to arrive. His mother, rest her soul, would more likely than not come back from wherever it is she is now to beat him black and blue if he allowed a man of faith into his home while it was dirty. At least, that’s what he can tell himself. His renouncing of the faith didn’t bring her back, so this probably won’t either.

Probably.

When he finds himself remaking his bed like there’s going to be some kind of inspection of his entire home, he throws his pillow down in disgust at himself. In a moment of spite, he considers digging through the closet for his boxed up sex toys and strewing them throughout the kitchen and bathroom, maybe dig up that pride flag from a few years back and pin it to the window. See how _open-minded_ this Reverend really is. 

The moment passes and he relegates himself to picking through the fridge for something to drink. Maybe he should’ve made something for dinner, if he’s going to have company. He could always order a pizza or something. Still can if the Reverend is hungry. 

There’s a knock at the door, and Miriam is at work so there’s nobody it could be except the Reverend. Clayton looks through the peephole anyway. Mason is standing a few feet back, just as huge as he remembers. He’s wearing a black button up and slacks, his clerical collar fairly inconspicuous all told. Clayton opens the door before it becomes obvious he’s just standing there. “Evening, Reverend.”

“Good evening, Mr. Sharp. I hope you don’t mind that I brought dinner with me. I don’t know if you’ve already eaten, but it only seemed polite.” He holds up a bag of Chinese food, which looks like it is holding at least five separate meals.

“Are we expecting guests?” Clayton asks, still in the doorway. 

“Ah, no,” Mason says, “I realized when I arrived at the restaurant that I had no idea if you’ve got any restrictions so I got an, uh, array.”

“Nothing known.”

“That’s good.” Mason lowers the bag, rolling his other shoulder where he’s carrying a messenger bag. “May I come in?”

Clayton shrugs, stepping inside to make room. Or, he tries to then quickly realizes that he’s underestimated the man’s breadth and rubs shoulders as he passes by. He feels a shiver run through him that he quickly stomps into the dust. “You can just set that on the counter, I’ll unpack it. You just. Set up the paperwork there on the table.”

“Sure,” Mason says, dropping the food bag on the counter before laying out the messenger bag on the table and getting to work laying it all out. Clayton takes his time examining the food as he pulls it out and moves it around the counter. Wonton soup, chicken and broccoli, General Tsao’s, egg rolls, three kinds of rice… 

“Really I just need you to sign here and I can leave you to your dinner,” Mason says, interrupting Clayton’s cataloguing. 

“Surely you’re not bringing me a week’s worth of food just to drop and run.”

The Reverend’s brows lift, “I didn’t mean to offend, Mr. Sharpe, I just assumed you would prefer your privacy.”

“Why’s that?”

“You didn’t give the impression of someone who would prefer to be in my company for any longer than necessary. If I was mistaken, I would be happy to sit with you for dinner.”

“Doesn’t your book say something about bad company and good morals?” Clayton asks.

“Are you bad company?”

“Depends on who you ask. I’m sure no matter how _open_ you say your church is, there’s a few rules in there about dining with sinners.” Clayton knows full well he’s being a pain in the ass, but he’s got forty years of Catholic guilt built up and the perfect target through which to process a little of it standing not five feet away. 

Mason, for his part, simply swipes the paperwork back into his folders and slips them into his bag. Clayton’s darkly proud of a successful self-sabotage right up until Mason sets the bag over the back of the chair and walks to the sink. He’s pulling his gloves off when he looks over at Clayton, smiling, “I think perhaps it was a mistake to start business before dinner. Would you mind setting the table while I wash up?”

Left with no real recourse, Clayton finds himself laying out the plates that came with the food alongside the plastic cutlery. He sets the various containers out buffet style between them and takes a seat waiting for the Reverend. After a few more moments of running water and low humming, he dries his hands on the towel beside the sink and sits opposite Clayton. Clayton lifts a brow, “You gonna say grace?”

“If you don’t mind,” Mason says. “Or I can say it in my head for the Lord to hear it.”

“Just get on with it,” Clayton says, mustering no heat behind it.

Mason just nods before closing his eyes and bowing his head. “Bless us, oh Lord, for these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. And blessed are the laborers through which your work is done. Amen.”

“Amen,” Clayton says, startling himself with the reflex more than anything.

Mason doesn’t comment on his statement, merely rolls up his sleeves to reach across the table to grab the container of chicken and broccoli. “So, Mr. Sharpe, how are you this fine evening?”

“Well as I can be,” he says, guarded. The muscles in Mason’s forearm are thick and defined, covered in a dusting of dark hair. His hands are pale, a stark contrast to the farmer’s tan he’s got going up the rest of his visible arm. “What about you?”

“Another day breathing is a good day for me,” Mason says. “But that wasn’t really an answer and neither was yours. Do you mind if I call you Clayton?”

“I’d prefer it to Sharpe, Reverend.”

“You aren’t a member of my clergy, so if I’ll call you Clayton you can call me Matthew. At least under your roof.” He shovels some of the chicken into his mouth, then winces, parting his lips for a moment to blow out the heat before he takes a painful swallow of water. “Sorry. So how have you _been_ , Clayton? If we’re going to be working with each other, I’d prefer we be at least friendly.”

 _Well my boyfriend just broke up with me, he knows I killed some people and could tell everyone in town whenever he wants, and I’ve just about popped a boner just seeing you flex your hands._ “Like I said, I’ve been as well as I can be. You just rolled into town, though, surely you’ve got more going on than just breathing.”

“Well, you’ve got me there. I’m not from around these parts exactly-”

“ _No_. Really?”

Mason gives him a wry grin, “So I might be more than just not from around here. Still, I heard the old owner of that Church here in Deadwood had put out word to the Old Catholic Church about how it needed to be used and used soon or they’d have no choice but to relinquish it. I understand there’d been some scandal about a few decades back, the old preacher run out of town. Nobody wanted it, or wanted to be associated with it, so it fell out of use. Since it’s about to be paved over anyway, word got to me. Back home there were a few younger leaders that the congregation trusted, I figured I could make way for the new blood and move out here to see if I couldn’t spread the word in our way up here. I know how it can be sometimes, living in a small town, I figured our brand of faith could do some folks well.”

“Pretty story, but it still tells me shit about how you’re doing,” Clayton says, catching the cuss too late.

For his part, Mason doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he rubs the back of his head in embarrassment, flushing just a little. It makes Clayton’s heart pound and he hates himself for it. “You’ve got me there. But I’ve been fine, thanks for asking. I’ve been met with about the right level of push-back I expected. Not as much as I feared, but more than I’d like. Having you on board to fix it up puts me at ease, though.”

“How do you figure?”

“It’s good to be challenged in your faith. I can’t be yes’d to death if I’ve got someone around that won’t follow blindly after.”

“My pleasure to be the thorn in your heel,” Clayton mutters.

“Let nobody say I was the one to call you a little prick.”

A startled laugh jumps from Clayton’s throat. “But you were thinking it real hard.”

Mason smiles around his latest bite, “That’s between me and God.”

The conversation lulls as they eat, between them clearing the majority of what the Reverend brought with him. It’s only when they’re both leaning back and reaching for a fortune cookie that they can admit defeat. “I think we’ve just about cleared through this.”

“I can agree,” Mason says, cracking the cookie cleanly in two. He looks at the little slip of paper curiously, “Hm. ‘Wisdom comes from listening, and seeking repentance.’”

“Guilty conscience, Reverend?” Clayton laughs, then cracks open his own. “‘For more fortunes, go to www.myfortunecookie.com.’”

“Turn it around, oh wise one, that I may listen and repent,” Mason snorts.

The tips of his ears burn, but Clayton does as requested, “‘Saints are the sinners that kept trying.’ What, did you stop by a Catholic Chinese kitchen on the way here?”

“Cross my heart, it was just the first place I saw on my way over. Maybe it’s a message from the divine.”

Clayton rolls his eyes and crumples the message between his fingers. Between the two of them, they get the table cleared and Clayton gives it a quick swipe with a sponge before they lay out the paperwork again. It’s mostly just contracts detailing the terms of their agreement, nothing he’s never seen before. It’s mostly a courtesy, seeing as it’s all straight off the websites for these sorts of things. That and he isn’t above busting the Reverend’s balls double checking the fine print, though the man isn’t showing any outward signs of frustration. He manages to drag five pages into fifteen minutes by the time he’s satisfied. 

The Reverend takes a look over his signatures as he wraps up, giving a gentle blow over the ink before shuffling them into their folders and back into his bag. He washes his hands once more before drying them off and pulling his gloves back on. The leather creaks as Mason flexes his hands to situate them. “A pleasure doing business with you, Clayton.”

“We’ll see,” Clayton says, watching him roll his sleeves back down over his thick arms and button the cuff. “You do know it’s summer? We might be in South Dakota, but it’s still eighty degrees out.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to be modest,” Mason says, meeting Clayton’s eyes and giving him a knowing wink. Clayton flushes in a mix of embarrassment and anger, more the former than the latter, but it still stings.

“Because when I think whore, my mind leaps on over to a Reverend with his hands exposed,” Clayton says, irritated. 

Mason lifts his hands in mock surrender, “Just trying to make a joke, I apologize for offending.”

Clayton just grunts, pissed at the Reverend and pissed at himself for being pissed over nothing. He opens his front door, “I’ll be seeing you around.”

Shoulders lowered, face open and sincere, Mason utterly fails at looking non-threatening due solely to his size, but he makes an effort at it as he tries to meet Clayton’s eyes again. “Truly I’m sorry for offending, Clayton. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“You’re getting wiser by the minute, Reverend. I’ll be seeing you around.”

Clayton never knew a six-foot-four, two-hundred-fifty pound man could do a sad puppy impression, but there Mason goes, giving it his best shot. “Have a good evening, Clayton.”

Before he can close the door, Mason sticks his hand out. Given that reduces his options to shaking his hand good night or smashing it in the door jamb, Clayton tentatively takes the offered hand. “Good evening, Reverend.”

Long after Mason’s left, Clayton finds himself unconsciously touching his palm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:  
> Still More Christianity  
> Clayton willfully reading homophobia where it really isn't  
> Just a lot of horniness for hands and arms.  
> Homoerotic tension


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clayton tries to get some work done and runs into problems of his own making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end notes for details regarding potential triggers and warnings.

From his previous experience, Clayton knows the easiest weeks are the first and the last. After all, you spend the first week ordering and requisitioning all the shit that you’re going to need over the next few months and the last week ordering the peons around with the last few bits of decoration. So knowing what he knows, the fact that this first week is shaping up to be so damn tough is concerning.

It’s not hard _work_ , per se. He has his budget and the know-how to breeze through the early stages of construction now that Miriam’s secured his equipment rental for him. (Behind his back and without his consent, but he can’t argue with the results or the expeditious technique through which she always manages to work.) Even with all the business factors bent in his favor, he’s still finding proceeding extremely tough for one reason. He needs to consult with Mason every step of the way. Type of wood, color of paint, how many candles. Every question results in a ten minute to an hour meeting in close proximity with the man where he has to explain the merits, benefits, and possible pit-falls of every choice.

The Reverend is, all things considered, extremely agreeable. Practically deferential, really. It’s just that he has to touch everything. The paper Clayton’s laying out on the table, a picture on his phone, the wood sample that Clayton’s still holding. Every single time, without fail, their fingers brush and even through the leather the contact makes Clayton shudder. And the rectory is damnably hot, even with the emergency air conditioning unit chugging along as hard as it can. Clayton’s stripped to his undershirt and work jeans, gloves tucked into his waistband and his kerchief damp to the point of uselessness. Mason is still wearing his black slacks and long-sleeved button-up with the collar. It has to be some kind of perverse survival mechanism that he finds that so fucking attractive. A trauma response, maybe, to years of being forced to wear near to that exact outfit every sunday no matter how hot or cold it was. Seeing the Reverend wear it effortlessly is doing _something_ to his libido.

Well, not effortlessly.

It’s almost a hundred degrees outside, the hottest day so far and likely to be the hottest day of the summer. Clayton’s swiping a drop of sweat off the end of his nose when he hears it. The AC’s fan gives out. It’s like just knowing it’s going to get hotter in the tiny house invites the temperature to spike even faster. He’s mid-sentence describing to Mason the merits of red oak over white when he sees the man’s hand go to his throat and give the band a light tug to loosen it. The quarter ounce of liquid still in Clayton’s mouth evaporates when, with a flick of his thumb, Mason opens the topmost button of his shirt. The white clerical collar stays in place, which Clayton realizes dully isn’t actually part of the shirt but attached separately, but the inch of skin beneath it is bared and Mason sighs quietly in relief. He’s silent for a moment then coughs politely, pulling Clayton out of the stupor. “You were saying something about discoloration?” he prompts.

“Yes. Right. It’s just this damn heat,” Clayton grouses. “White oak’s going to yellow.”

“So you’ve said,” Mason says, patiently. 

Clayton grits his teeth. “Right. Well that’s your main difference there so if you don’t have any other concerns or input, I think our best bet’s going to be red oak for the pews. They’re heavy, but it’s durable and they aren’t going to fade ugly.”

“I’m lucky to have found someone who knows their way around their wood,” Mason says with a smile.

“You know me, a card carrying homosexual,” Clayton says, giving a token, sour grin.

Mason looks down at him, confusion bending his brow for a moment. “I just-”

“It’s fine,” Clayton barks, wiping his face. “If it’s no different to you, I’m going to go finish this purchase in my car where the cooling actually works for sh- where it works.”

“Clay-”

“I said it’s fine, Reverend. You didn’t mean anything by it. I heard you.” With the plausible deniability of escaping the heat, Clayton flees to his car to break line of sight of that pale strip of skin and the little tuft of hair poking free of the buttonhole. 

Fortunately, Mason doesn’t follow him out of the house. Probably setting to work on his AC unit, if he knows what’s good for him. Clayton spends a few minutes standing outside his truck as the vents blast like a furnace before they can adjust down to a reasonable sixty-five degrees. He needs a drink.

He _really_ needs a drink.

Somewhere deep down he knows that this is a sign that he has a problem. It’s two in the afternoon and now that he’s had the thought, he can’t shake it. The car’s cool enough that he can sit in it to finish up his orders and open a few spreadsheets to plan out the next few weeks. Though this is going to put some strain on the car and chew through gas. And leaving the engine running’s not great for the environment and it had been on his resolution list (or rather one of the five options on the suggestion list Miriam handed to him in December of last year) to reduce his carbon footprint. Truly it’d be better for everyone and everything if he found someplace to sit down and do his work. Someplace like The Gem.

Or, maybe not The Gem since Katie’ll go running to Miriam if she sees him having a beer before five. He does a quick mental catalogue of places nearby and settles on the one between the casino and the cemetery. It says it’s a restaurant and bar, but when he’d last paid it a visit—for the first and last time—that just meant there were a few tables off to the side that one could technically order an actual meal from. He’s not convinced the kitchen has anything other than a refrigerator, a range, and a microwave.

When he pulls into what passes for a parking lot, he still gives the four cars that are there a once over to make sure he doesn’t recognize any of them. With the coast clear, Clayton heads inside. It’s dim, cool, and the hostess looks at him like she wishes he’d drop dead on the spot before he talks to her. In a word: perfect. They both pretend not to notice the other as Clayton walks past her to the bar counter in the back. The bartender is a kid who looks like he’s just old enough to serve without being old enough to drink it himself. America the beautiful. Clayton just sets up his tiny laptop and barks an order to the kid. 

One beer turns into two, two into four. He leaves his card with the kid to set up his tab while he takes a quick trip to the restroom, leaving his computer on the counter. In the cool air of the bar, he’s regretting not bringing his overshirt with him. His sweat’s long since dried cold on his tanktop and he has to hold back a shiver—more to keep from spraying piss all over the wall than out of any sense of pride regarding the masculine ability to never feel anything as womanly as cold. So he’s standing stock still in front of a urinal with his cock in his hand and an urgent need to piss, trying to shake off the chill when the door to the restroom swings open. As per bathroom etiquette, Clayton keeps his eyes locked on the chrome flusher as whoever entered walks in. He’s just about worked up the calm to take his goddamn piss when the new arrival speaks. “Thought I recognized that piece of shit laptop on the counter.”

Clayton looks up to find Aloysious looking at him, fully unimpressed. “Got nothing better to do than watch a man trying to do his business?”

“An unfortunate consequence of stumbling into you when it seems we both had the same idea.” Aloysious turns to walk over to the sink and scrub his hands. Clayton hastily tries to relieve himself as he does so. Luckily for him, Aly’s one of the few people that actually takes a full minute to scrub his hands. One of the things Clayton appreciates in a man. So Clayton manages to zip back up and get to the sinks before Aly’s done drying his hands under the noisy blower. 

He pumps a squirt of soap that looks unfortunately like someone just came on his palm and starts to scrub as he says, “So now what, you going to go scampering off again?”

“I left you, _Amos,_ I didn’t go scampering off anywhere.”

“You didn’t even give me a chance to explain, you bastard,” Clayton snaps. 

Aly’s expression sharpens in anger, “I didn’t want any explanation you could give. You can choke on your explanations. You lied to me. You lied to me for almost a goddamn year. If I didn’t stumble into it you woulda kept lying to me forever. You’re a coward, Amos Kinsley, even if the court didn’t find you a murderer. So you save all that bluster for someone who gives a shit.”

“You trying to say you didn’t see my truck before you walked in here? You said it yourself you recognized my laptop.” Clayton shakes his hands twice before swiping them down his shirt. 

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you came in here to see me anyway. Means you wanted to see me.” Clayton wants to blame the drink but he’s too functional a drunk for only four beers to excuse him for stepping into Aly’s space. “Means you missed me.”

“It means,” Aly says, pushing a finger into Clayton’s sternum to shove him back, “that I came here to grab some food from a place you hated the last time we were here because I thought you’d steer clear of it. It means that I wasn’t going to waste my own damn time once I realized you were here. And it _means_ that I wasn’t going to have a meal before I washed my hands, whether I had to see your sorry face again or not.”

“That the truth?” Clayton asks, shoving back against the finger on his chest to lean further toward Aly.

He leans slightly toward Clayton, whispering, “Truth is you better get out of my face before I take you out of my face.”

Clayton smirks, but stands up straight and walks around Aly to leave. When he looks back, he’s pointedly washing the hand he’d touched Clayton with.

Fishing for his wallet as he walks, Clayton drops a twenty on the counter and takes his card off the top of the register from over the bar, then packs up his laptop as he tells the kid to keep the difference. The bartender tries to say something as he storms out, maybe that he’d already charged the card. Clayton doesn’t really give a shit. He throws his laptop onto the passenger seat of his truck, clambers in, and turns it on. It’s back to unbearably hot, but he just sits there for a few minutes and lets the volcanic vent that is the air conditioning blast him in the face. He’s fine to drive, it was only four beers. Miriam’d be pissed if she knew, but Miriam’s not here. So he buckles up and takes off down the road. He gets to his apartment just fine, no harm no foul, lets himself in, and preheats the oven in preparation for another Marie Callender special.

As the oven heats his apartment from the second layer of Hell to the third or fourth, he heads to the fridge and takes out one of the shitty IPAs that Arabella had brought over a few months back that everyone had been too polite to fully decline. It meant that he and Aly’d had to hide seven of the left-over cans in their crisper to be forgotten about. But beggars can’t be choosers. He cracks one open and sets himself back up with finishing those order sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:  
> Clayton's alcoholism rearing its head  
> Technically Under The Legal Limit Driving  
> (The correct amount of alcohol you should have before getting behind the wheel is 0. None. Do not drink and drive.)  
> Clayton and Aly getting into a brief verbal fight


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clayton goes to dinner with Miriam and Arabella. That's it. That's the chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings posted at the end notes.

Clayton knew he couldn’t put off a dinner with Miriam and Arabella forever, though he tried his best regardless. It’s not that he dislikes either of them. He loves them both dearly considering they’re his only friends. He just knows that with the meal is going to come questions and between Miriam’s inexorable pushing and Arabella’s blunt inquiries, he’s going to crack before dessert and tell them something he doesn’t actually want to tell them about.

Since he knows what’s coming, he sets himself to determining which part of the ugly break he’s least unwilling to spill to them the moment he hangs up with Miriam. She’s given him less than three hours to decide and he’s in the middle of coming up with a soft lie couched in just enough truth that she won’t see through it when the realization hits him that he’s got no hope of maintaining the charade. 

The truth is out. He killed a man. God help him, he killed three. Self-defense or not, that’s not something people can just overlook. It’s why he moved out to Deadwood in the first place. There’s no putting this cat back into the bag no matter if Aly actually does keep it to himself. It’s the reason they split and it will never not be the reason and now Miriam’s got the scent of it. He bought himself this long on pity alone, that’s bound to wear off soon.

He catches his phone as it falls off the table from the force of his leg’s nervous tapping. It grounds him for the moment. Maybe it’s a good thing, this all coming out. He just lost his job, he doesn’t have a… whatever it was he actually had with Aly. He can just move on again if this all gets out. He can always just leave.

It’s the mantra he runs through his head, over and over, as he wanders his apartment. He picks up the various bits of laundry that have escaped the basket in the bathroom, scrubs out the sinks, and eventually squeezes himself into something a little nicer than denim shorts and a t-shirt to show up to Miriam and Arabella’s place. It might be god-awful hot, but he’s not an animal.

When the clock rolls around to dinner time, the chant has taken a back seat with the underlying thrum of anxiety that’s run through him for weeks. When he knocks on the door, he only has to wait a moment before Arabella opens the door for him. “Mr. Sharpe, always a pleasure.”

“You can call me Clayton, Arabella,” he says, as he has said for years. 

“Well, Miriam’s setting the table, _Clayton_ , so I’ll just take that wine you’ve got there,” she says, not waiting for his response before taking the bottle from him and bustling back inside. 

Clayton shuffles out of his shoes beside the mat and wanders through the living room to the kitchen. Arabella’s sticking the bottle onto the rack beside the other bottle he’d brought last time. Miriam gives him a smile and a quick greeting before turning back to the stove to stir the pasta around. 

“I hope you’re hungry,” she says, tipping the pot so Clayton can see the truly obscene amount of spaghetti she’s coating in sauce. 

“Should I be expecting the rest of the cavalry regiment at six?” 

“Oh don’t be like that, you can just take what’s left over home with you.” Miriam gives her ladle another turn about the pot before turning off the gas burner. “I’ve seen the state of your fridge, some good old fashioned leftovers will do you good for a few days. Better this than eggs and toast three meals a day.”

“We’re bound to have extra salad, too,” Arabella adds. “May as well send him off with it to round out the diet before he finishes rounding out his waist.”

“I grew up with one mother,” Clayton grunts, “I didn’t sign up for two more.”

Miriam sets the pot on a thick towel in the middle of the table as Arabella brings over the glass salad bowl. “If you’d make more of a show of taking care of yourself, I wouldn’t have to worry as much.”

“I take care of myself just fine, Miriam. If you’re just going to mother me, I may as well head out.”

“Oh you wouldn’t dare,” Miriam says, and her expression is soft, but her tone has an edge to it. Clayton takes a seat. “Serve yourself then. Arabella, you too. Now who wants water and who wants lemonade?”

“Water,” Arabella says immediately. She fixes a large helping of salad on each plate, snatching a cherry tomato that tries to escape the tongs and popping it into her mouth. 

“Lemonade sounds divine,” Clayton says, mostly for the sake of being contrary. 

Dinner proper’s a quiet affair dominated primarily by Clayton’s overcautious eating. Arabella and Miriam make it look effortless, just a twirl of the fork. It makes Clayton aware of every scrape of his fork or slurp of the noodles. It has his back up and he knows it, and his over acknowledgement has Miriam and Arabella noticing it. Most of the way through, he sets his fork down. 

“Everything alright?” Miriam asks.

“Sure,” Clayton says, unsure.

Arabella gives Miriam a look, then sets her own cutlery down. “Well, if you’re sure and you’re quite finished…”

Clayton snorts, “Oh good, we can move onto the real reason you had me over.”

“Clayton Sharpe,” Miriam snaps. “You will _not_ be speaking to her like that.”

“Speaking like _what_ Miram?”

Miriam’s brow lifts and Clayton feels about a foot shorter. “You know quite well how you’re talking and I won’t stand for it. Now, Arabella and I had you over tonight because we’re your friends and we wanted to see you-”

“Miriam, it’s alright-” Arabella tries to interrupt.

“It’s not alright! Nobody’s going to disrespect anybody in this house, least of all you and least of all by him. Now, Clayton, you apologize to my wife.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Bella,” Clayton grits out. Miriam’s mouth thins in irritation, so Clayton continues. “I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you, especially in your house. Thank you kindly for dinner tonight.”

Miriam turns her look to Arabella, who just nods. “Alright. Well, if we’re done with that unpleasantness, maybe we can move on with tonight.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Clayton asks, walking that razor’s edge of politeness, “what exactly is tonight supposed to entail?”

“We’re worried about you,” Miriam says, nearly tipping her glass over with the gesticulation. “Aloysius won’t tell us what happened and you’ve kept your mouth shut, so we have to worry.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Clayton insists. “Turns out we weren’t… compatible.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Miriam says.

“Seems like you got along fine for going on a year,” Arabella adds, though she seems less sure of it. Maybe she’s just afraid of upsetting either of them. Clayton’s seen Arabella when she sinks her teeth into something, though, so the whole dinner and her treating him so softly has him even more on edge. 

“Barely more’n six months,” Clayton argues, though it’s a hollow thing. “Look, sometimes it just doesn’t work out.”

“Well that’s true enough but generally when things don’t work out I don’t have to go fishing you out of a gutter-”

“Miriam-” Arabella cuts in.

She puts a hand to her temple. “Alright, alright. This isn’t supposed to be going like this. It’s just that clearly _something_ happened and nobody wants to talk to us about it. That’d be all well and good if it weren’t for the fact that you don’t want to talk to each other either. I’m not one to go getting involved in everyone’s business-”

Arabella and Clayton snort. Miriam gives them both a glare.

“Unless I think there’s something I can do about it,” she amends. “And I’d thank you to keep in mind how often there is.”

She has him there, at least. “I’m not keeping secrets from you to hurt your feelings. This just isn’t something you can fix.”

“Without knowing what’s broken, I really can’t,” Miriam says.

Clayton mutters a prayer for patience out of reflex and that does little but piss him off even more. Through sheer force of will to maintain his friendship with Miriam, he beats the vitriol down. “I am asking you to let it be.”

Arabella gives Miriam’s hand a squeeze. “Honey, I think that’s for the best right now.”

“Alright,” she whispers, lips pursed. “Fine, I’ll let it be. Just promise me you’ll talk to someone about this?”

“It doesn’t need talking about,” Clayton says.

“I’m not saying you need to talk about it with me or Arabella, Clayton, I just think you need to tell _someone_. It’s not doing you any good keeping whatever it is a secret. It’s not.”

Clayton sighs, “If I tell you I’ll talk about it to someone who isn’t you, will you believe me?”

“I will.”

“Then I’ll talk to someone about it.”

She meets his eyes and holds him there a moment. Whatever her brown eyes see in his, it seems to satisfy her. “That’s the best I can hope for, I suppose.”

_It is,_ Clayton thinks, _because if I have to talk about this with you I’m taking the next train out of here._ He says instead, “Thank you.”

His appetite is thoroughly spoiled, but Clayton clears his plate for the sake of making his hosts happy. If either of them notice he’s eating more to finish the night than to sate his hunger, they’re kind enough not to mention it. He gathers the place settings and takes them to the sink to wash them out while Arabella packs up the leftovers into their good pyrex. Miriam busies herself with folding up the tablecloth and napkins. She looks up at Arabella as she carries them down the hall to her washing machine, calling out, “Oh, don’t forget to send him home with some of the dessert, too.”

“I didn’t forget,” Arabella says, already in the process of pulling a single tiered cake from the refrigerator and cutting a generous slice from it.

Clayton lifts a brow, “You know, for all your concern about my waist line, that’s a mighty big piece you’re giving me.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to space it out,” Arabella says, sensibly. “You don’t have to eat it all at once.”

Clayton just rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Arabella.”

“You’re welcome. And we did mean it, you know. We care about you and we want to know that you’re doing alright. Especially Miriam, but I do care, too. So just… Give us a call once in a while. Don’t make us go chasing after you all week.”

With a sigh through his nose, Clayton nods, “I’ll keep in touch.”

“Glad to hear it.” Arabella gives him a hug that’s just as awkward as all the physical contact they’ve ever had. Her arms are stiff and she has her hands closed into fists and Clayton has hardly enough time to return the squeeze before she wriggles out of it. Miriam appears just as Arabella steps back and pulls him into a warmer embrace. When she releases him, he makes for the door.

“Thank you again for dinner, Miriam. Arabella. I’ll talk to you soon.” Clayton clutches the little green grocery bag in one hand and starts to turn away.

“We’ll hold you to it,” Miriam says, and there’s a threat to it. “Take care of yourself.”

Right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions/jabs at Clayton's weight and diet.


End file.
